"And you're telling me that's when you—" She stops. Shakes her head. "No. That's not how love works."
I don't argue with her. I just wait.
"Love takes time," she continues. "It takes knowing someone. Understanding them. Sharing experiences. You can't just look at a stranger and decide you're in love with them. That's not love. That's... I don't know what that is. Obsession. Delusion. Something."
"Maybe," I say. "But it's the only truth I have."
She laughs. It's not a happy sound.
"The only truth you have is that you fell in love with a woman you threw over your shoulder like luggage?"
"Yes."
"And then you spent two years tracking her every move?"
"Yes."
"Do you hear how that sounds?"
"I do."
She paces away from the window. Runs her hands through her hair. Turns back to face me.
"Why didn't you say anything? In Chicago. When we were in the same house for weeks. Why didn't you tell me?"
"What was I supposed to say?" I ask. "You hated me. You had every right to hate me. I'd dragged you into a world you wanted nothing to do with. And then you got shot because of us."
My jaw tightens.
"You were lying in that hospital bed with a hole in your hand and I was supposed to what? Tell you I loved you? Ask you to stay?"
Marina's face changes.
"So you just... watched me instead."
"I stayed away," I say. "That's what you wanted. You told me to leave and I left. But I couldn't stop knowing. I couldn't stop making sure you were safe."
"That's not staying away, Dante. That's stalking."
"I know."
"You know everything about me. Where I live. Where I work. My phone number. Probably what I eat for breakfast."
She stares at me.
"You check your locks four times before bed. You take the stairs instead of the elevator."
Her face goes pale.
"You work with foster kids at a nonprofit downtown. You're good at it. They trust you. You stay late most nights because."
"Stop."
"You haven't been on a date in eighteen months. The last one was with a coworker named David."
"I said stop."
I stop.
